


Good Omens Anniversary Celebration: A Ficlet Collection

by Etaleah



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Animal Crossing References, Animal Crossing: New Horizons, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Era, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Characters Playing Animal Crossing Game(s), Cooking, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Crying, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Falling In Love, Ficlet Collection, Good Omens 30th Anniversary, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Mario Kart, Mario Kart References, Meta, Miracles, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Shorts, Sick Character, Sickfic, Sleep, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), True Love, good omens one year anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etaleah/pseuds/Etaleah
Summary: The ficlets, meta, and one-shots I wrote for the May 2020 Good Omens Anniversary Celebration on Tumblr, all in one place. Each day features a different story with a corresponding theme.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. May 3rd: Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> There were some days of the anniversary celebration I did not get to and other days where I posted excerpts of my other fics that fit the daily theme. I hope to finish the other days and add them later, but make no promises. The days where I posted fic excerpts are as follows:
> 
> May 1st: In the Beginning – "In the Flesh"  
> May 2nd: Contrast – "Get Thee Behind Me"  
> May 6th: Rescue – "Disaster Husbands"  
> May 8th: Family – "Cradle and All"  
> May 14th: Food – "Soft"  
> May 15th: Through the Years – "Untouched"  
> May 17th: Holiday – "Aziraphale and Crowley’s First Christmas"  
> May 19th: Stars – "Lost and Found"  
> May 22nd: Home – "Domestic Days" and "Stay with Me"  
> May 27th: Road Trip – "To the World"
> 
> Please check them out if you'd like to read more of Aziraphale and Crowley's shenanigans!

Aziraphale has spent years watching Crowley care for his plants, great and small. Watering, feeding, fertilizing, terrifying; he puts his soul into each one. Given his love of all living things, Aziraphale would be remiss not to encourage such a talent (albeit while frowning on some of the methods), so he buys Crowley all the flowers, seeds, and gardening tools he can find.

Soon he begins to notice Crowley putting in even more effort. He takes the most beautiful flowers in a rainbow of colors and gives them his very best care, even a little encouragement. He takes them outside for sunlight and pollination. They go in the prettiest pots with the best quality soil, he arranges them like a florist, and dresses them up like a professional. The result is breathtaking, surpassing anything he’s ever grown before.

Aziraphale has to know. “What’s so special about these flowers? Are you planning to enter them in a show?” He hopes so. Each one is certainly blue ribbon material.

Crowley smiles and shakes his head. He takes the bouquet that Aziraphale has admired and complimented the most and puts it in his hands.

“They’re yours,” he explains in a soft voice. “I grew them ‘specially for you.”

Aziraphale can’t breathe.

Crowley blushes. “I mean, well, see, you give me flowers often enough. Figured I should return the favor-”

He can’t finish. Aziraphale has set the flowers aside and wrapped him in the warmest hug an angel can give.

“Thank you, dear,” he whispers into his ear. “They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Second only to you.”


	2. May 4th: Force

Hardly a day goes by that the thought doesn’t enter Crowley’s mind: _What if I gave him an ultimatum_? 

He imagines every detail. His feet apart, shoulders squared, shades tight over his scared eyes, arms crossed. Fixing Aziraphale with a glare. 

_“Who will it be, Angel? Me? Or them?”_

_“Choose a side, Aziraphale. Hers? Or ours?”_

He can see that face, as scared as he is. Shocked, hurt, betrayed. Torn. The debate that’s been unfolding slowly for centuries playing at light speed in his head. Weighing each one. 

It’s hard to say who’s more afraid of Aziraphale’s answer. 

Crowley imagines them both. _“You,”_ he says, ever so hesitantly. _“Of course you. Us.”_ And he takes Crowley’s hand, lovingly but fearfully. He’ll be by Crowley’s side with one eye over his shoulder, always wondering what if, could have, would have, should have. 

Then he imagines the alternative, the far, far, worse alternative. A shake of the head, a hardening of the eyes. _“Them. Her. I’m sorry, Crowley.”_

He isn’t even as angry with Aziraphale as he is with himself. Why did he have to do this? Why did he let his curiosity get the better of him? If only he hadn’t pushed, he could always have had the illusion that maybe, _possibly_ , Aziraphale would choose him. But now he knows. 

So he doesn’t ask. And he doesn’t push. 

He will stay patient if it kills him.


	3. May 5th: Miscommunication

He’s heard it many times, but it never gets any easier: 

_“The Bible is a fucking fairy tale!”_

_“I’m not going to listen to a bunch of people who still believe in fairy tales!”_

Aziraphale understands where they’re coming from. Many a time he’s wondered about the logic of the Almighty and Her angels. _Wondered_ , but never questioned, of course. Questioning would be wrong. Yet for all this wondering, he still feels a pain in his chest when he hears humans say such things, in no small part because he can’t tell them that bits of it are true. Saying the Bible is a book of fairy tales just doesn’t seem fair, somehow, and more than a little mean-spirited. One night he mentions this to Crowley. 

“They’re _what_?” His mouth drops. “They actually compared the Bible to _fairy tales_?” 

“Indeed they did,” Aziraphale says, nodding sadly. “An atrocious comparison, don’t you think?” 

“I’ll say it is!” Crowley growls, and to Aziraphale’s surprise, he seems genuinely upset. “Damn right it is. Ought to be ashamed of themselves.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale smiles. Perhaps there’s hope for Crowley after all. “You might tell them so.” 

“Oh, I will!” Crowley shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disgust. “Honestly. The nerve of these damn humans.” 

Aziraphale sits back and smiles. His heart is swelling, he’s so proud. 

The next time they’re out and about during a protest, they hear the secular side make the claim again. Before Aziraphale can even turn his head, Crowley has leapt onto the podium and snatched the microphone from the speaker’s hand. 

_“Listen.”_ He snarls, eyes full yellow and fixing everyone with his most fearsome stare. “I have something to say about calling the Bible a fairy tale. And you lot had DAMN WELL better listen.” 

The crowd is silent. Aziraphale is practically bouncing. 

“Don’t you EVER say that again. The Bible is nothing, and I mean _nothing_ like fairy tales. Do you know why?” 

The crowd shudders. Aziraphale grins. 

“Because fairy tales are fun and interesting to read and the Bible is a bunch of boring, self-righteous drivel. Don’t you DARE insult fairy tales like that.” 

He hands the mic back to the speaker and stalks off as Aziraphale’s mouth falls to the ground, right there with his shattered heart. 

“Well, I think they got the message,” Crowley says cheerfully, rejoining him. “Care to go for lunch?” 

Aziraphale closes his mouth and shakes his head. “No,” he says, very quietly. “I’m going to go back to the bookshop and read.” 

He doesn’t dare say which book he plans on reading. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character opinions on scripture do not reflect that of the author.


	4. May 7th: Alternate Universe

Agnes’ line had begun to sting. 

_In his shop of other men’s books._

_Other men’s books._

_Other men’s books._

Aziraphale frowned. First of all, more than half of those books were written by _women_ , thank you very much. Second, he was perfectly capable of writing his own book if he wanted to. He just hadn’t wanted to. 

Until now. 

He sat down at his desk with his best paper and pen and thought. He knew what he _wanted_ to write. An epic Tolkien-esque medieval fairy tale with heroes and royalty just like he remembered from so long ago. 

Yet all he could think about was Crowley. 

He’d been growing his hair out again and looked like a princess, though Aziraphale would never tell him so. Lately he’d been laughing a lot at funny things Aziraphale said, though always in a friendly way. Such a beautiful laugh. Part of Aziraphale wanted to write about that. About him. 

He sighed. The paper stayed blank. Maybe he ought to try again later, or perhaps use a writing prompt, or… 

It hit him. 

He snatched up his pen and wrote as fast as he could. 

_The story of Princess Angelina J. Crowley and Aziraphale the Royal Fool._

He grinned. His heart raced.

The bookshop faded away as he was immersed in the land of olde. Crowley’s jeans and jacket melded into the most beautiful dress. The Bentley became a noble horse, black as the night. Heaven and Hell became warring kingdoms, London a town, Crowley’s flat a princess’s chambers, the bookshop a dreadful dungeon. 

When finally his hand could write no more, Aziraphale had used up 17 sheets of paper front and back and hours had gone by. He was happier than he could remember being in a long, long time. 

He couldn’t wait to show Crowley what he had made.


	5. May 9th: Doubt

Do you ever think about how often Aziraphale and Crowley must have wondered if the goodness each received from the other was real? 

Did Aziraphale see Crowley approach him and start talking respectfully and think, _He must be trying to get information out of me._

Maybe Crowley saw Aziraphale shield him from the rain and be nice to him, but because he’d learned to distrust anything to do with Heaven, he thought, _“Probably just pretending to be nice so he can stab me in the back later, just like She did.”_

How many times did each assume the other was a spy? That the friendship was fake? That _he’ll ditch me as soon as it’s convenient and his side forces his hand_? The first time Aziraphale did a job for them both, did Crowley worry that maybe he wouldn’t really do it, in hopes of getting Crowley in trouble with Hell? 

This could have gone on for centuries. Over and over, wondering and worrying, until two fateful nights. 

Aziraphale saw the books in Crowley’s hands and never doubted him again. 

Crowley saw the holy water in Aziraphale’s hands and never doubted him again. 

If they trust anything in this universe, it’s each other.


	6. May 10th: Miracle

Cards scatter to the floor for the fourteenth time that day. Aziraphale avoids Crowley’s glare as he bends to pick them up.

“Why?” he asks with disgust.

“Why what?” Aziraphale feigns ignorance he knows is about as convincing as his act.

“Why do you do that stupid magic act when you are _actually_ magic?”

"I’m not magic. I just…have the power to perform miracles, that’s all.”

“Same thing. Just do that instead of messing around with this garbage.”

“Would you please stop calling it that?” Aziraphale is sweaty and tired from so much bending over, and his wrist is sore from waving the wand.

“Fine. I’ll stop calling it that if you tell me why you insist on doing it.”

Aziraphale sighs. He looks at Crowley, trying to gauge his thoughts from behind those shades. He squares his shoulders and braces himself to be mocked.

“Because. Watching humans make magic happen when they lack the power to do so is, to me, a true miracle. It may all be slight-of-hand, but all the same, it’s an art. A beautiful art that makes children happy.“

Crowley groans. "I was hoping you’d have a stupid reason.” He pushes himself off the couch and heads for the door. “Be right back.”

Aziraphale is puzzled but goes back to practicing. Just as he’s ready to throw his cards, wand, and hat to the floor in frustration, Crowley returns.

He slaps a book and a DVD on the table: _Making Magic: A Beginner’s Guide to Magic Tricks._

“If you insist on doing that ridiculous magic act, you can at least get better at it. Here you are. Study up.”

Aziraphale can barely believe it. He takes the book and DVD and hugs them to his chest.

"Thank you, Crowley,” he says with a smile, and thinks to himself that certainly one miracle has taken place today.

One that didn’t need any magic at all.


	7. May 11th: Old-Fashioned

Crowley was always a city demon.

A fast-living, night-owl, art-loving, car-driving city demon.

If you had told him at any point in his 6,000 years on Earth that he’d be living in a country cottage with the nearest building four miles away, he’d have laughed and shaken his head.

Yet here he was.

And he loved it.

_“A two-week vacation,”_ he’d said. _“It’s only two weeks.”_ Crowley had been less than enthusiastic about two weeks of no internet, television, motorways, museums, or all the lovely chaos of London. But for Aziraphale, he would try anything.

They’d made the move. Everything about the place was old-school. Water came from a well. Food came from the farmer’s market. The air was clean. Their neighbors were largely animals. He and Aziraphale were all by themselves.

Finally.

The country gave them the peace, the quiet, the privacy, the intimacy they had needed for so long. Leisurely mornings in bed, afternoon swims in the creek, and nights on the porch rockers with his favorite person in the universe had gone by so quickly that Crowley didn’t even miss the luxuries he’d become so dependent on. Two weeks turned into two more, and two more, and two more.

Now this place was home.

And old-fashioned though it was, Crowley wouldn’t change it for the world.


	8. May 12th: Memory

“Ahh, there’s nothing like a leisurely drive through the country!” Aziraphale sighed. The sun was out, the fields and pastures were green, and the city was far behind them.

Crowley nodded. “For all that you complain about my driving, you have to admit, me having this car has been pretty damn handy for us both.” 

“I will admit that,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve always thought so, actually, even the first time I saw it back in 1941. Back when it was brand new.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t brand new. I’d had it over a decade by that point.” 

“You had?” Aziraphale frowned. “You know, come to think of it, I never did see you buy it.” He decided not to mention that this was because they hadn’t been on speaking terms at the time. 

Crowley smiled. “Oh? You want to hear the story of how I got this car?”

“I should love to!” Aziraphale said happily, folding his hands in his lap. If there was anything he loved, it was a good story. 

Crowley could recall it clear as day.

_It was love at first sight._

_The bright lights, the cool yet soft seats, the VROOM of the engine, the sleek steering that turned on a dime, and best of all, the shiny black paint had captivated Crowley even more than the stars of space. He’d stumbled over to it as if in a dream, the beautiful Bentley seducing him toward her._

_His sparse living space had always been proof of how little Crowley struggled with the deadly sin of greed._

_Until now._

_“She’s perfect,” he’d breathed, stroking her smooth, gleaming surface. “Utterly perfect.”_

_No one had been happier to see the development of cars than Crowley. He’d always loved driving fast, but horses were a pain in the arse to deal with. They were scared of everything, they smelled, you had to feed them, and their energy was limited. But_ this _…a machine like this would last forever. He could drive it all night and she’d never give out on him. All the privacy of a stagecoach with a hundred times the speed._

_He had to have it._

_“I see you’re interested in one of our newest models,” the salesman grinned, coming up to meet him. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”_

_“I’ll take her,” Crowley said. He was mesmerized and didn’t move his eyes from her roof. “Name your price. I’ll pay anything.”_

_“Now that’s what I like to hear!” the salesman laughed. “I only wish I could take you up on it. Unfortunately, this car has already been sold.”_

WHAT. _Crowley lifted his head and glared full yellow at the salesman, grinding his teeth and ready to hiss and growl. Someone had_ DARED _to buy his baby?_

_“Yeah, it’s already been purchased. And I’m sorry to say it’s the last one we got. But I tell you what: we have a whole shipment coming in about two months from now. You come back then, and I’ll be happy to put you down for one just like it.”_

_Two months. Two months was two months too long. Two months was an eternity. Two months of walking and horses and cabs was more than Crowley could bear._

_“Who bought it?” Crowley asked._

_“Well, see, I can’t really disclose customer-” He took one look at Crowley’s face and immediately provided the customer’s name and address._

_“Thank you. Very much,” Crowley said, nodding. “I’ll just have a word with him then.”_

“And that’s the story,” Crowley said cheerfully. 

“That’s it? Aren’t you going to tell me what you said to that man to convince him to give you the car?”

Crowley grinned and snuck a forked tongue between his teeth, his smile reaching the corners of his shades. “Trust me, Angel. You _don’t_ want to know.”


	9. May 13th: Unlucky

Crowley has had the worst week of his life. 

The weather is dull, gloomy, and cold, far too cold for a snake. He hasn’t seen the sun or even the moon in days as the sky has stayed stubbornly white. Hell assigned him the job of stealing food from a child and then beat the piss out of him when they found out he’d lied on the memo about having done it. Half the roads in London are under construction, so he can’t take the Bentley for a drive. And to top it all off, he’s somehow gotten sick. 

He’s bedridden, coughing and sore and throwing up everything he eats. Even after piling on one blanket after another, Crowley is freezing and can’t stop shivering. His head hurts. He’s dizzy. He’s never had such a shitty week in centuries. He hates everyone and everything. 

“Ah, there you are! I hope you’ll pardon my interrupting, but when you didn’t return any of my calls, I began to get worried.” Aziraphale enters Crowley’s bedroom without asking, which only serves to make Crowley even moodier. 

“Go ‘way.” He buries his face in the pillow, hoping the angel will leave him alone. If one had to suffer, it was best done in peace. 

“Are you all right? You appear to be rather pale.” His footsteps grow nearer. 

Crowley groans. Of _course_ Aziraphale is coming closer when Crowley told him to bugger off. Of- _fucking_ -course. 

“Oh dear, you _are_ pale. And with bloodshot eyes too. But how can that be? I thought it was impossible for angels and demons to get sick.” 

Crowley is so exhausted he can’t even open his eyes. He tries to drift off to sleep, but a fit rolls up from his chest and he’s coughing so hard it _hurts_ , burning his throat and making his voice hoarse. His head feels like it may explode. 

Aziraphale steps back, looking worried. “Gosh, you sound terrible. What on earth has happened to you? You know what, I bet it was…” 

And then he rambles. Going on and on and on and Crowley can’t even pretend to be listening because he hurts _everywhere_ and he’s still so fucking cold and _god_ why won’t he shut up? Why won’t the whole damn universe just leave him alone? 

“…and like I’ve always said, it’s better to be exceedingly cautious than not en-” 

“Go awaaaaay,” Crowley whines, trying to sound harsh but really just sounding pathetic. He can feel a stinging in his eyes and his face is crumpling. A sob escapes before he can stop it. 

“Oh. Oh, okay. I see.” 

Aziraphale’s voice is soft and gentle now. He leaves and Crowley thinks he’s scared him off, but then he comes back holding a wet cloth, two pills, and a cup of water. 

He holds out the pills and water. “Here you go, love. This will make you feel much better.” Crowley doubts this but is willing to try anything if it will make this whole blasted bug go away. He takes the pills and drinks the water, grateful to wash the taste of sick out of his mouth. Aziraphale places the cloth over his forehead- _oh_ that feels good. 

“Now for a few quick miracles.” He snaps his fingers and suddenly Crowley’s sheets and pajamas are fresh and clean, his blankets are warm and heavy, and outside, the sun is beginning to peek through the clouds. Crowley exhales. 

The next thing he knows, the bed is shifting and Aziraphale is behind him, gently turning him over so they’re face to face. Crowley doesn’t have the energy to fight him, but keeps his head low so Aziraphale won’t see his eyes. 

“Come here,” he whispers, so quietly Crowley can barely hear it. He holds him to his heart and cradles his pounding head so gently, murmuring soothing words into his hair and stroking the hurt away. 

His body radiates warmth. Crowley relaxes into it. _“It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you.”_ He says it over and over as Crowley’s wall breaks and he’s snifflingand whimpering into Aziraphale’s heart. At some point he falls asleep and when he wakes up, Aziraphale is still there. 

Holding him. 

Hugging him. 

Loving him. 

For the first time that week, Crowley feels better. He’s amazed what a difference Nurse Aziraphale has made in mere minutes.

Maybe even the worst times aren’t so bad when you have an angel taking care of you.

Maybe he’s lucky after all.


	10. May 16th: Far Future

Everyone has a plan. 

The young lady with the bicycle is going to free herself from Agnes Nutter’s legacy and start a new life as Anything But a Professional Descendant. She and her boyfriend are heading to the States, where the young man hopes to become an actual computer engineer. 

Adam Young and his crew are going back to school and planning new ways to thwart the wiles of Greasy Johnson and his gang of hooligans. 

Madame Tracey and Sergeant Shadwell are retiring to the country. 

Heaven and Hell are (possibly) gearing up for another war, this time pitting celestial forces against humanity. 

Everyone has a plan. Except them. 

“What are _we_ going to do?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Go for drinks, isn’t that what we said?” Crowley’s voice snaps Aziraphale out of his thoughts. 

“Oh. No, I meant…long-term.” He looks Crowley in the eyes. “We don’t really have any plan for our future, do we?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Who says we need one? Don’t know about you, but now that Upstairs and Downstairs are leaving us alone, I’ve got everything I want.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “Yes, I suppose that’s so. I can’t say I’m wanting for much either.” He nods and glances at his calendar. “Even so, I should like there to be something to look forward to. Besides the everyday occurrences, I mean.”

“Yeah.” Crowley thinks. “How about we take a holiday?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes grow wide. “A holiday?” 

“Why not? After all, we’ve been through, we deserve it. And you know what else?” He jerks a thumb out the window. “When we come back, I’m selling that flat. ‘s not the same anymore after Hastur and Ligur were in it.” 

Aziraphale swallows and takes a deep breath. “M-maybe after you sell it, we could…I don’t know…find you another place? One that, um, is a little closer? Or even, um…” He looks away, not knowing how to say it. 

“You know…I don’t have very much,” Crowley says, catching on. “In fact, I think just about everything I have would fit in that spare room you got in the back.” 

Aziraphale smiles and the whole room brightens. “Sounds like a plan, my dear.”


	11. May 21st: Garden

**Crowley:** Angel, look! I found us a new house plant.

**Aziraphale:** Oh no, Crowley, please, we have no more room left—

**Crowley:** Nice and big one too. Got it on sale if you can believe that.

**Aziraphale:** _(Deep breaths, attempts to control himself)_ Crowley. This is absurd. We have _six hundred and sixty-five_ house plants in _my_ _fucking shop_!

**Crowley:** _(Grins)_ Actually, we have six hundred and sixty-six. _(Holds out a plant)_ Meet Kevin.

**Aziraphale:** ….

**Crowley:** =D

**Aziraphale:** No.

**Crowley:** He likes warm sunshine—

**Aziraphale:** NO.

**Crowley:** And watering Wednesdays—

**Aziraphale:** NO.

**Crowley:** And enjoys being fed just after sunset.

**Aziraphale:** I SAID NO!

**Crowley:** …

**Aziraphale:** …

**Crowley:** So I’ll be putting him on the window seat then?

**Aziraphale:** ….Fine. Welcome to the garden, Kevin.


	12. May 23rd: Cursed

“So you’re baking _and_ cooking now?” Crowley asks as Aziraphale sets a bowl in front of him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I must say neither did I, but you know, it’s great fun. And when restaurants are closed, we must do what we can.” He gestures to the bowl, full of piping hot macaroni and cheese. “Please, dig in! I’m eager to know what you think.”

Crowley nods and spoons up a bite. He has to admit, it does look good. Certainly better than any of the box stuff he used to make for Warlock in his nanny days. Aziraphale is watching him with eager eyes as he places the spoon in his mouth.

_Oh. Lord._

Crowley closes his eyes. He feels almost weak. The sweet, creamy cheese and soft pasta melt in his mouth and _damn_ it’s good. Better than sex. Better than _booze_. It’s the best fucking thing he’s ever had in his life, and he and Aziraphale have eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world.

“Well?” Aziraphale rubs his hands together, a tad nervous. “What do you think?”

Crowley can’t even speak. All he can do is shovel one spoonful after another into his mouth and moan with pleasure at each one, mourning it when it slides down his throat and disappears into his belly. When his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, he quickly asks, “Is there more?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, that was the last of it,” Aziraphale said. “But I’m _thrilled_ to know that you enjoyed it. Perhaps another night we can—”

“Give me the recipe.”

“What?”

_“Please.”_ Crowley can’t explain it. He needs that recipe. He needs that mac n’ cheese so fucking badly he can’t stand it. The cravings are worse than heroin.

“Oh. Well, all right, if you insist.” He gets up and heads over to a counter, rifles through a recipe book, and pulls a card from it. “Here it is, homemade mac and—” Crowley snatches it from him and begins to read. He must know the secret.

_Ingredients for Scrumptious Homemade Macaroni and Cheese:_

_1 box of elbow macaroni_

_2 cups milk_

_2 tablespoons butter_

_½ teaspoon salt_

_2 tablespoons flour_

_¼ cup sour cream_

_2 cups shredded cheddar cheese_

_Love_

Crowley gives Aziraphale a look. “Love? Really?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale nods. “Love is the most important ingredient of all.”

Crowley smirks. “Please. Don’t need to include a _metaphor_ in your recipe.”

“It’s not a metaphor! You really do need love to make this. If you don’t, it won’t taste as good.”

“Mm-hmm.” Crowley heads out. _Sure you don’t._

* * *

“Fucking Heaven!” Crowley throws a pot across the room. “What am I doing wrong?”

He’s followed the directions exactly. He’s bought the exact same ingredients as Aziraphale right down to the brands and the stores they came from. He’s measured out each one so carefully, so _painstakingly_ , time and time again, and nothing works. His sixth attempt is just as useless as all the rest.

“Is…everything all right?” Aziraphale asks nervously. He’s come for lunch. Crowley stupidly thought he’d surprise him by making his own mac n’ cheese to return the favor from last time, but that won’t be happening because he can’t fucking get it right even after six fucking tries.

“Sorry, my stuff is all wrong,” he says, gesturing to the spilled pot in the corner. Aziraphale hurries toward it and tastes some of the pasta that hasn’t touched the floor.

“Crowley, this is quite good! You should be proud.”

“’s not the same,” he mutters. “I can’t get it to taste like yours.” He puts his head down. “I’m apparently cursed to be a worse cook than you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. So long as you make sure to add plenty of love, that’s all that really matters to getting the recipe right.” He looks at Crowley. “You _have_ been using love to make your mac n’ cheese, haven’t you?”

Crowley starts to tell him off but finds he doesn’t have the energy for it. He sighs. “No. I don’t know how.”

“Well, we can fix that.” Aziraphale holds out his hand. “Come with me. I’ll help you make it exactly the way you like it.”

Crowley isn’t sure he has the heart to try a seventh time, but doesn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale. “All right.” He follows him into the kitchen and goes through the motions of measuring and mixing.

Aziraphale covers his hands with his own and stands behind him, so close that Crowley gets goose bumps. “Now, as you’re adding it all together, close your eyes and send love into the food. Thank it for nourishing you. Let it know that you love the people it will feed.”

Crowley feels silly, but does it. He closes his eyes. Gives thanks. Sends love. Finally, Aziraphale tells him to open his eyes and take a bite.

It’s the best damn thing he’s ever tasted. So good it makes tears come to his eyes.

“Like I told you,” Aziraphale says, giving him a hug. “It’s all about love.”


	13. May 24th: Dream

Sleep makes Crowley younger.

At least, Aziraphale thinks so. Something about the activity’s relaxation and quiet makes all of the tense anger and hostility so present in his angular features fade slowly away. Those fast-moving muscles become gentle, and with no snake eyes visible and no shades, he looks much more like a human. When the light hits his face just right, he even looks like an angel.

Aziraphale could watch him for hours.

Of course, someone with Crowley’s imagination is going to have dreams. Aziraphale can tell by the twitches and whimpers when one is happening. When it seems akin to a nightmare, he gently shakes Crowley to wake him. Other times, he’s content to let him sleep.

One night, he hears Crowley dream about the impossible.

He’s tucked under the blankets on Aziraphale’s comfiest couch, safe by the fire while a rainstorm rages outside. He’d stumbled in soaking wet, and by the time Aziraphale had gotten him into dry clothes and warmed him up with tea, he’d been exhausted. Now he’s wrapped up, still, and as peaceful as Aziraphale has ever seen him.

The muscles in his face are twitching and his fingers are flexing like they always do when his mind is in the midst of a dream. He smiles, sweetly and slowly, and gives a soft little sigh.

“Thank you…” He pauses on the word. “God.” Aziraphale’s breath catches. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Aziraphale presses a hand to his mouth to keep from crying out as his face crumples. He can see it as if he’s in the dream himself. Crowley’s wings are white again. His eyes are a warm brown. He’s wearing white. He feels _loved_ again.

Quickly, Aziraphale darkens the room, cools the temperature, places another blanket over Crowley, and snaps his fingers.

If he has his way, Crowley won’t be waking up from this dream for a long time. 


	14. May 25th: Glorious

_“The glorious revolution!”_

_“Our glorious destiny.”_

_“Glorious tool for our cause.”_

Crowley can’t see what’s so glorious about any of it.

Sure, he hates the smug pricks in Heaven as much as the next bloke, and he’d love to see them get the kick in the teeth they deserve. But what will wiping them out do? What does it prove? That Hell is stronger, maybe. That’ll be a fun award for them all to gloat about for all of five minutes before they go back to sulking and making everybody miserable. Sure, they might have a better office, but what good does that do if you don’t enjoy the work you’re doing in it?

Even worse, what about the humans? They haven’t done anything wrong. All that revolution shit went down millennia before they were even _born_. And that wasn’t even getting into the animals and birds and whales. Brain _city_ , whales.

He doesn’t dare voice these thoughts. No one would agree with him anyway. Not even about the latest humans that just got kicked out. Better off talking to a human or animal than another demon, or maybe even that angel over there.

Angel?

Crowley looks up. Huh. There _is_ an angel, standing on top of that wall all by his lonesome. Weird. Well, he can’t be a worse conversation partner than Hastur.

May as well slither up there and try him out.


	15. May 28th: Culture

Aziraphale looks at the box uneasily.

“Er—Crowley. When I said I wanted us to be more cultured…well, this wasn’t _exactly_ what I had in mind.”

“Come on!” Crowley teases. “Video games _are_ culture. And an art form. There’s characters, settings, story lines; basically everything you love about books.”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale stares at the tangle of wires, controllers, cartridges, and buttons. It all looks so complicated.

“Here, I’ll set it up, and you can watch me play. How’s that for a start?”

Aziraphale thinks he would rather watch paint dry, but doesn’t want to seem unreasonable. “Very well.” He settles into his chair with a mug of tea and Crowley quickly connects everything and turns on the console. A green light comes on, and the telly begins to make race car noises. A picture flashes on the screen, and a voice says, _“Mario Kart Eight!”_

“Mario Kart 8 Deluxe,” Crowley says happily. “Been waiting to get my hands on this.” He presses buttons and speeds through settings so fast it makes Aziraphale’s head spin. In no time, his little character thingy, which looks like a walking turtle skeleton, is on a race track in a car with what must be a dozen other creatures and humans. The game counts 3, 2, 1, and from there everything goes so fast Aziraphale couldn’t keep up if his life depended on it.

“Haha! Take this! Come on, make this turn, don’t fall…YEAH!” Crowley pumps a fist, eyes full yellow and grinning maniacally. His character is throwing one object after another at the other racers, knocking them over and off the track. Some of them go off cliffs but are rescued by a creature in a cloud with a fishing rod. “Around again, and…first place.” He nods proudly as happy music plays and his little character waves to the crowd.

Crowley turns around. “So, you wanna give it a try?”

“Um.” Aziraphale smiles nervously. “I don’t suppose you have another game? Perhaps one that’s a little…calmer?”

“Sure.” He holds up another case. _Animal Crossing: New Horizons_. “I thought this one would be more your speed. Care to give it a go?”

Again Aziraphale would rather read a book, but Crowley looks so excited to share his newfound interest with him that he agrees. The games are switched out, and the controller is placed in Aziraphale’s hands.

* * *

Crowley yawns and stretches before coming downstairs to the bookshop’s living area the next morning. He figures Aziraphale must be starving for breakfast by now, if not lunch, and is just about to call his name when he hears a noise from the other room. Curious, he follows it.

Aziraphale is gripping the controller with all his might, gnashing his teeth and growling at the idyllic island paradise on the screen. He’s in the exact same position he was in when Crowley left him yesterday.

“For Heaven’s sake, Angel, how long you been playing that thing?” Crowley asks in amazement. “Have you stopped even once in twenty-four hours?”

Aziraphale turns, very slowly, to face him. His eyes are hard and determined. The bags underneath them indicate he has not slept. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“Five stars,” he rasps. “Five stars, Crowley. Five! I shall have them. No matter what it takes, if it costs me everything I own, I will have those five stars. Five! No less.” He holds up a hand to illustrate the point. _“Five stars, Crowley!”_

“Yes, yes, I get it.” He shakes his head and smiles. “Damn, you’re even worse than me.” He can’t help a laugh as he closes the door and leaves Aziraphale to play with his new toy. 


End file.
